


Hunger

by bigboobedcanuck



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Derek Hale, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Top Stiles Stilinski, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigboobedcanuck/pseuds/bigboobedcanuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no vampires in Beacon Hills. Until now. <i>“Let him go.” Derek manages to keep his voice steady, although he’s aiming for cold and detached. “I’m the one you want. He’s just a human. What can he do for you?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> These scenes just unfolded in my head one night when I couldn’t sleep. This is a departure for me, and it was really fun to write. Thanks to Rhiannonhero for the beta!

Derek’s really starting to get bored. 

He’s shirtless and shackled — the metal woven through with wolfsbane like the daisy chains his little cousins used to make — with his arms over his head, metal around his chest and his feet bound to the rings soldered into the concrete wall. Because apparently this dungeon was actually a dungeon at some point and comes properly appointed. There’s a bare light bulb overhead, and the concrete is stained and dank.

He has no idea where he is, or who’s holding him. The tranq dart had worked swiftly and caught him unaware, which makes him grind his teeth to think about. He thought he caught a whiff of the older Argent, which isn’t much of a surprise because they all knew that son of a bitch would be back sooner or later. But the scents are all wrong in this place, and he can’t figure out why. It’s been hours, so he decides to go to sleep, because fuck this. 

But just as he closes his eyes, he catches a scent that shoots adrenaline through him like a snakebite. He can hear Stiles’s pulse before the door clangs open and Stiles is hurled inside. He sprawls near Derek’s feet and lifts his head, blinking up at him, heart pounding like a jackhammer. 

Through a split and swollen lip, he rasps out, “Derek? Oh God.” 

Fury storms Derek and his fangs come out as he literally sees red. Stiles is trembling and breathing in wetly, and Derek can practically hear Stiles’s cracked bones pressing into his damaged lungs. His hair is longer lately, and it’s matted with blood. 

Gerard Argent saunters in, all sickening smiles. Derek tries to focus through his rage, because Argent is all wrong, his body unnaturally powerful, eyes gleaming with something Derek can’t name. He’d hoped Argent had slithered off and died, but it seems he’s found his lifeline somewhere else. 

“Derek Hale. It was rather easy to catch you. I’m a little disappointed, to tell the truth.”

Derek wants to come up with a witty response, but all he can do is growl and listen to Stiles’s ragged heartbeat. 

“This one threw the first punch this time.” Argent comes closer and kicks Stiles, spinning him over onto his back in a blur of movement. Stiles is only inches from Derek’s boots, coughing.

“And you bit me, you old freak.” He takes a wheezing breath. “What, my hair isn’t long enough to pull yet?”

Argent smiles. “So tenacious. It’s good to see a young person with drive.”

“Let him go.” Derek manages to keep his voice steady, although he’s aiming for cold and detached. “I’m the one you want. He’s just a human. What can he do for you?”

Argent gazes down at Stiles with something that could be fondness. “He can die.” 

He slashes Stiles’s throat with a movement so quick it’s just a flash of movement as the blade slices the artery, blood spurting as Stiles’s heart palpitates desperately. Thrashing his legs, sneakers kicking out, Stiles grabs his throat, too much blood seeping through his fingers. 

“No!” It’s all Derek can say as he tugs uselessly on the chains, the wolfsbane burning, willing his bones to break so he can get free. Even though he knows it’s already too late. 

Argent is gone, his laughter echoing along with the clank of the cell door. Stiles stares at Derek, eyes wide as he chokes on his own blood. He lifts one of his hands, trying to say something, his lips moving soundlessly.

“Stiles. It’s all right. You’re going to be all right.” Derek lies, because it’s all he can do. 

He listens as Stiles’s heart winds down, the beats becoming slower and slower. Stiles drops his hand in his last moments, his fingertips grazing the toe of Derek’s boot. The thrashing has stopped, and Stiles’s body is still, his chest barely moving under his ruined t-shirt. But his glistening eyes are still open, gaze locked with Derek’s as his heart constricts for the last time.

As Stiles’s eyes glaze over, the howl claws free from Derek’s chest.

*

The chains cut into Derek’s wrists now that all the fight has drained out of him and he can only hang limply. He tells himself to close his eyes or look away, but he can’t. He couldn’t look away from Laura either after he’d put her in the ground, her eyes still open. It had seemed wrong to close them somehow. Had felt like defeat. 

The urge to lose himself in the mindless comfort of fur and instinct is overwhelming, but he can’t shift properly, not with the wolfsbane burning into his flesh. He wants to cry — his eyes burn with it — but he doesn’t have the right. So he watches Stiles, realizing he’s never seen him so still and quiet. Stiles was always jittery energy and words tumbling one after the other, innocence and bravery and loyalty and goodness. 

The person Derek had come to when he was infected by the bullet because he knew Stiles would help, no matter how much he complained. The person he’d pushed away with both hands, but who held Derek up when he was helpless. The person he’d never allowed himself to think too closely about because it made him want things he didn’t deserve.

Derek can’t stop the tears from slipping down his cheeks now as he understands what he’s lost with a pang of longing that would bring him to his knees. He’s too late as always, realization only ever coming amid blood and ashes. 

When Stiles blinks, Derek knows he’s gone out of his mind. Maybe it’s the wolfsbane leeching into him. Maybe it’s the unexpected grief. Maybe he’s just overdue for a bout of crazy.

But then Derek realizes there’s a strange thrum coming from Stiles. Not a heartbeat, but a deep and steady throb of growing energy. Stiles blinks again, his fingers twitching faintly against the leather of Derek’s worn boot. 

As Derek watches, the skin of Stiles’s throat begins to mend back together. Stiles becomes whole again, his heart still silent, his lungs frozen. But his lips are moving, and Derek realizes there’s sound coming out that he can’t hear over the rushing of blood in his ears as his heart thumps painfully. 

“Derek?” Stiles blinks, and his eyes are dark now. 

With a scrape of metal, the door opens and Argent is there again, three minions in tow. When he smiles this time, Argent shows his fangs, and Derek tries to wrap his mind around the existence of — what, vampires? — and Stiles moving at his feet, limbs slowly coming back to life. 

“I’m glad, you know. That your bite didn’t take. All these years I’ve focused on werewolves when there’s a whole other world out there. You animals might not get sick, but vampires live forever.”

“Vampires can still die,” Derek grits out. He’s not sure how because Hollywood undoubtedly has it wrong, but every creature has its weakness. If there’s one think Derek knows about nature, it’s that nothing is truly immortal.

“Well, we’re going to test that theory.” His sharp teeth gleam as he smiles down at Stiles and steps toward him. “Hello, son. You must be starving. I know I was. Being reborn is hungry work.”

Splattered with drying blood, Stiles pushes himself up on his hands, arms trembling. He pants even though he doesn’t need to breathe, working his jaw as fresh tears form in his eyes. He looks to Derek, voice little more than a rasp of sound. “Derek?”

Looming over Stiles now, Argent is only a few inches from Derek. If he leaned just a bit closer… 

Derek blinks, gasping as Argent’s blade cuts into his chest. Laughing, Argent steps back with a strange grace. “They say a werewolf’s blood is fatal to us, but I want to know for sure. He won’t be able to resist long. No one can.”

Blood drips down Derek’s chest, and Stiles stares up at him in horror. Yet as he does, his fangs extend and he shudders, dark eyes gleaming. He jerks his head. “No.”

The vampires all chuckle indulgently as if Stiles is a stubborn child. “It’s only a matter of time, my boy,” Argent says. “You have to feed. In fact—”

The clean arc of a sword sends Argent’s head sailing across the dungeon, setting the light bulb swaying. In the undulating light and shadow, blood spurts and bodies fall, and when it’s over, Peter is smiling.

“It’s a myth, for the record. But it keeps the vampires out of our hair most of the time.” His gaze falls on Stiles, and his mouth turns down, a furrow appearing on his brow. “Such a shame.” 

As Peter raises the sword, the concrete crumbles and Derek tears his right arm free with strength he shouldn’t possess, reaching for Stiles to block the blow. Peter’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Oh.” He sighs, lowering the sword. “I see.”

Derek’s nostrils flare and he grips Stiles’s t-shirt, hauling him closer. 

Peter shakes his head. “He’s your responsibility then. I recognize the perceived hypocrisy in a werewolf advising that vampires are extremely dangerous, but there you have it. We really have enough on our plates right now with the alpha pack moving in. But if you insist — and I see that you do — he might prove useful. All right, get him housebroken.”

With that, Peter’s gone. Legs unsteady, Stiles pulls himself up and begins unwinding the wolfsbane, his eyes focused on his task, flicking down to the blood on Derek’s healing chest, steadfastly avoiding Derek’s face. It’s painstaking, and before long Stiles grunts in frustration and tugs on the chains. They explode free from the wall, and Stiles jumps back as if he’s been burned. 

Finally meeting Derek’s gaze, Stiles shivers, swallowing thickly. “I’m...God. What am I?” 

“You’re all right.” Derek frees himself from the chains, already feeling stronger the moment the wolfsbane is no longer in contact. He takes hold of Stiles’s shoulders and propels him out of the dungeon and up through an abandoned building he doesn’t recognize. They’re somewhere near the wildlife preserve, and he drags Stiles along in the faint moonlight, his brain racing to catch up with the new world order. 

Stiles shakes and makes little sounds that aren’t quite whimpers, but soon turn into moans. “I need. I…” His voice scrapes out of his throat and he stumbles to his knees, fangs out, the gleam back in his eyes. “Need it.” 

Derek catches him a rabbit, and Stiles sobs, just once, before tearing into it and sucking it dry. It gives him the strength to go a little further until he grips Derek’s arm. 

“Not. Enough.” He’s heaving now, wracked with tremors as he cries out.

His nails break the skin on Derek’s arm, eyes widening at the droplets of blood. Then he throws himself forward, crashing into Derek, hands grasping. “Please. Derek.” 

Derek knows all the rabbits in the preserve won’t be enough, and he owes Stiles this, so he tips his head to the side, baring his throat. Stiles’s eyes widen and then he’s biting down, sucking fiercely.

Breath stuttering, Derek closes his eyes as he gives himself over. He can feel his blood flowing into Stiles’s mouth, his body already healing itself, regenerating the blood he’s losing with that familiar gentle hum. Stiles could drink forever and Derek would let him, swaying into his arms as Stiles grips him. 

Stiles grunts, drinking noisily and pulling Derek closer. Derek’s never felt more vulnerable as Stiles drinks him in, rubbing against him, closer and closer. Since he’s returned to Beacon Hills, Derek’s been desperate for control, and he shudders as he finally lets go.

They’re both hard by the time Stiles lifts his head, his fangs retracting, eyes losing their supernatural glint but still darker than they ever were. His pale skin is flushed, and he smiles, and somehow he’s alive, alive, _alive_. Then they’re kissing, Derek tasting his own blood and liking it.

They tear off their clothes and stumble to the ground, summer’s warmth still clinging to the earth even as October nears. Stiles moans into Derek’s mouth as they roll around, rutting against each other in the leaves. Derek feels like he’s been drowning forever and can finally breathe.

He’s on his belly, and he pushes onto his knees and elbows, spreading his legs and opening himself up, desperate. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to mount him and push inside, practically growling as he fucks Derek raw. 

Derek’s only ever had his own fingers inside, and Stiles tears into him, the pain surging with the pleasure. Stiles’s hand grips Derek’s hip, the other threading into his hair to pull Derek’s head back as he rams inside.

They’re both groaning and grunting, and Derek has never felt like this. Has never been claimed. Stiles fills him, stretching him to the limit with his newfound strength, and Derek’s own dick is leaking, aching. As Stiles sinks his teeth into Derek’s neck again, Derek lets go, howling as his own fangs extend and the world is red with pleasure. 

Stiles comes deep inside him as he drinks, and Derek is utterly consumed. He clamps down, wanting to keep Stiles there forever as they ride out the tremors. When they flop to the ground, Stiles draped over Derek’s back, Stiles licks the healing wounds on Derek’s neck, his breath strangely warm. Strange that he’s still breathing at all, but he does. Derek can hear his lungs expanding the way they always have, only out of habit now. 

Derek knows they should get up and go to his house, that they can’t just stay here tangled together. When he shifts, he can’t hide a wince, and Stiles freezes.

“I hurt you.” His voice is little more than a rasp.

“I’ll heal. I am already.” Derek glances over his shoulder, and Stiles stares at him with a stricken expression. 

Before Derek can tell him not to worry about it, Stiles dips his fingers into Derek’s ass, caressing him. Then he drops his head and kisses Derek’s hole, his tongue smoothing over the stretched skin and bruised flesh, and Derek’s cock twitches. 

He groans. “We need to go. The sun will be up.” 

Stiles raises his head and licks his lips. “Oh. Right.” 

They carry what’s left of their clothes, moving faster now that Stiles has fed. Stiles doesn’t speak, just gazes around at the forest as if the world is new, which Derek supposes it is. Fat drops of rain start to fall, washing them clean by the time they reach Derek’s shell of a house, the eastern sky just beginning to lighten beyond the treetops.

He leads Stiles inside to the windowless room he uses. Once upon a time it was the dining room, where the Hales gathered to laugh and eat and be a family, the room they’d used more than any other. The ceiling is sturdy, and Derek feels most at home here, despite the charred walls. 

It should be strange or awkward or _something_ to curl up with Stiles on the old mattress. But it isn’t. They’re both damp from the rain, and Derek presses up behind Stiles, wrapping him in his arms and pulling the blankets over them. Stiles melts back into him closes his eyes like it’s the thousandth time and not the first.

*

The hinges on the sliding door squeak, and Derek opens his eyes as Stiles steps out into the foyer. For a moment, Derek blinks, wondering what strange and lovely dream this is, before he remembers and leaps up. “Wait!”

But of course Stiles is already extending his hand into the shaft of sunlight that beams through the ruined ceiling. His pale skin is smooth, all wounds healed. Dust motes dance in the sunlight, and Stiles wiggles his fingers. 

He glances back at Derek, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Guess that one’s a myth too.” 

Derek exhales. “Guess so.” 

Stiles steps into the sunlight, closing his eyes. He stretches his naked body without any self-consciousness, with a grace Derek has never seen in him before, powerful and undeniably _different_. Derek’s heart skips a beat as he wonders how much of the old Stiles will really be left behind now that the changes have settled in.

Then Stiles turns, brow furrowed. “Think I can still eat garlic? Because I really like Italian food. Can I still hold a crucifix? Or touch holy water? Am I going to be _immortal_? Jesus. I need to do some serious research. Ugh, and study for my midterm on Tuesday.” He glances around. “You didn’t invite me inside, but does it count when there’s barely a roof and only, like, three walls?”

Derek shakes his head, a smile tugging on his lips, his body unclenching as Stiles rambles. “I don’t know.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. “I guess we’ll find out.” 

“I guess we will.” 

Before he can lose his nerve, Derek joins Stiles in the sunlight, pressing their lips together softly. He holds Stiles’s face in his hands, leaning their foreheads together as the word rattles around in his mind and finds itself a home. 

_We_. 

“Derek,” Stiles whispers.

Derek extends his fangs and runs his tongue beneath them, slicing neatly into the flesh. The sweet tang fills his mouth as Stiles takes a ragged breath, eyes flashing, and they’re lost again, tumbling into the darkness.

_fin_


End file.
